Eleven
October 31, 1999
2:18 p.m.
My daughter turns eleven years old today. Eleven is Lisa's favorite number. Not that that really makes a difference, but it makes the milestone somehow more real to me. My favorite number is thirteen. I can't imagine her passing thirteen. Anyway, last night we went out trick or treating. Columbus, Indiana is one of those small cities in the philosophical heart of the midwest, wherein the concept of trick or treating on Sunday is a true no-no. So Saturday was it for us. We were out for a full two hours, which is about what it takes to cram a grocery bag full of candy. It was a warm night in October. I needed my jacket only for the last half hour or so. Brigid wore the most spectacular gypsy outfit you've ever seen--purple and blue and pink and white with scarves and lipstick and jewelry. "Of all the kids out here tonight, Brigid, I think your costume is the absolute best," I said early in the evening. "That's just because you're my dad," she relpied. "Sure, I'm your dad," I said. "But I wouldn't lie about something like this." She had been planning her gypsy costume for weeks. Her and her mother were going to go to the thrift store at one point to get lots of good clothes, but for one reason or another that didn't pan out. I think Brigid was a little concerned, but Lisa did her usual magic, and low and behold, Brigid was a true masterpiece. I am probably not the world's best father, I know. But I try. And through the years, I've learned there are some things you should never do. Understanding how worried she had been about he costume, I would never have lied about it. Still, Brigid is a kid old enough to understand how things work. I know she was certain I was just saying it. The sun was still a smudge in the sky when we started (about 6:00), and it grew darker as we went. It was a fairly normal halloween night for our part of town--parents following kids, or carting them along in little red wagons outfitted for the occasion. Brigid and I strolled along the sidewalk together, telling jokes or just kind of hanging out. Then I would wait at the end of a driveway while Brigid made her candy run. I chatted with other parents as I waited, mentioning what a great night it was and trading old halloween memories. "I don't know why he goes trick or treating," one woman told me about her son. "All he eats is Starbursts." "All the more for you, then," I said, grinning slyly. She laughed. "Yeah, but then I have to listen to him complain about all the hard work he had to do to get that candy I'm eating." There's no such thing as a free snack, it appears. Maybe a third of the way through the night, Brigid rang a doorbell and the door swung open. The woman smiled, and swooned. "Oh, my, you are the most adorable gypsy I think I've ever seen." She dipped in and gave Brigid a bit of candy, then said. "Hold on just a moment." She called her husband in from wherever the husband was, and proceeded to ask him his opinion of Brigid's costume. "Best costume of the night," the man said. And he reached to give Brigid some more candy. Brigid came back beaming, but she didn't say anything. We were pretty much silent as we strolled through the darkness to the next house. The night was getting crisp, and it felt good to walk. The smell of trees was on a very slight breeze. "I told you so," I said right before she went up the driveway. I grinned at her. She rolled her eyes. "Daddy!" And she went walking up the driveway. It was like that all over. Other people commented on her outfit. We talked in between houses. Brigid always--always--said "thank you" and almost always bade the candy givers goodbye or told them to have a good night. "It's getting dark," Brigid said. And it was. It was probably 7:30, and the sky was pitch black. "All the big kids will be out by now," Brigid continued. "You never see anyone but little kids in the first hour because all the big kids want to look cool and show they aren't afraid." I nodded and looked at her. As we walked along, I suddenly found myself unable to speak. You see, I had not even possibly considered the idea that she might be big enough to trick or treat on her own. She isn't, of course. I wouldn't have let her go completely by herself this year. But I just had never thought about it. I'm the Halloween walker, you know? That's my job. Lisa stays at home and listens to CDs and controls candy central; I go out into the darkness with Brigid and make sure she's safe. I'm vocal about my enjoyment of it, and had in fact, made a firm point of letting her know how excited I was about joining her earlier in the day. But here she was, as tall as my mother is right now, and walking along beside me like the most perfect little person I've ever met, telling me about various halloweening strategies, being so polite, and making a point to not walk on the grass anywhere (well, she cut once, but she was really, really tired, and the path back to the road was really, really odd, and a bunch of other kids did, too. And when she got back to me, she had one of those looks that told me she felt bad about doing it, so I barely mentioned it). "Brigid," I finally said. "There's going to be a time when you probably won't want me to come along when you trick or treat." "Yeah, I know." Her reply was soft and very matter-of-fact. "It may or may not be next year." She looked up at me, her gypsy scarves swaying with her stride. "Whenever it is, it'll be okay, all right?" I said. Yeah," she replied. We headed to the next house. We did a lot more candy hunting, and our conversation moved through a lot of places during the rest of the eveing. But this last conversation stayed somewhere within my consciousness through the whole process. I hate the idea of not being with her, but still I hate almost more the fact that the thought never arose in my head until we were already outside. In the end, I just felt proud to be her dad, and left it be. Sometimes, I think that's all that's left to do, you know? By the end of the evening, her bag was full. Her feet hurt, and her face was cold. We had five minute's walk or so to make it home. "You want me to carry your bag?" I asked. "Sure." She handed me the bag. It was quite heavy. We walked along quitely. Brigid held my hand as we crossed a busier street. "I've had a good time," I said as we neared the house. "Me, too," she replied. We went inside to examine the results of her night's work. The candy clattered over the kitchen counter, smelling of chocolate and foil and plastic. Brigid's eyes were big. Lisa sat down and picked out what pieces she wanted, and Brigid made her some deals. I got a glass of milk, and opened the M&Ms that Lisa had given me as we walked through the door. "How was it?" Lisa asked, meaning the traffic. "It was fine," I said, popping chocolate into my mouth. "It was fine."  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"Gypsies are not cute, they're beautiful!" Brigid (after I had called her cute) |
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